


Three

by CatcherOfDreams



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I WAS NOT A GOOD AUTHOR, I WROTE THIS AS A CHILD AND IT IS BADLY WRITTEN, Mental Breakdown, Starvation, Suicide, its just bad okay, warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatcherOfDreams/pseuds/CatcherOfDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John falls apart the day Sherlock dies, can Sherlock even begin to put the hurt doctor back together. John Watsons decline after the death of his friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I will make this really short. This is actually the first fic I ever wrote, and am only just brave enough to post it now, so please be gentle. Probably quite OOC, and some parts may be a bit unrealistic. But I’ll let you decide that for yourself. I would love it if you could review, that would be amazing. Also its not very slashy. Enjoy, CatcherOfDreams xx
> 
> Trigger Warning: Suicide

**Chapter 1- Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days**

Three Seconds

_“SHERLOCK!”_ John’s brain screamed in terror, but the signal got lost on the way to his mouth. Instead he made an odd choking, strangled noise. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening. His stunned brain was forcing his body forwards, towards the pavement where his only friend lay motionless.

“He‘s my friend. He’s my friend.” Was that really his voice? It sounded so… broken. He pushed through the crowd of people to grab at Sherlock’s still warm hand, frantic to feel a pulse. The medical part of his brain was screaming at him that it was pointless, that nobody could survive that fall. The larger part of his brain was screaming that Sherlock had to survive, because he was Sherlock. And because John couldn’t survive if Sherlock was gone.

There was no pulse; no life trickled underneath the skin of his only friend. The sheer amount of blood hit him… hard. Sherlock’s blank, staring eyes pushed him over the edge. “No, oh god, no” was all he could manage. He felt nauseous, vaguely wondering if he would be sick. Shock was masking the pain of his loss. _Sherlock_.

 

Three minutes

The people from Saint Bart’s had taken away the body. John was standing, staring at the bloodstained pavement, conversation he had with Sherlock not five minutes ago running through his mind. He was in shock; he could feel his whole body trembling as he tried to comprehend what had happened. He had just watched his best friend, his only real friend, jump off a building. The tears started falling freely down his face, mingling with the blood pooling on the pavement. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the world.

The police arrived on scene, Lestrade the first one out of the car. Frantic eyes told of how he didn’t believe what he had been told, there had to have been a mistake made. Sherlock wouldn’t do something as stupid as kill himself. It just wasn’t possible. Sherlock was so, so much cleverer than that.

One look at John told him that no mistake had been made. The fact that the man was still standing was in itself a miracle. John was shaking all over, Sherlock’s blood covering his hands and arms. He was paler than anyone Lestrade had ever seen, and looked only moments from fainting or vomiting. He was squeezing his eyes shut, as if hoping he could shut out all the pain and horror. He looked like a broken, broken man. Lestrade did the first thing that came to his shocked mind; he ran to John and wrapped his arms around the shaking man. Surprised at how very small he seemed in that moment. “Greg,” John stuttered out quietly between muffled sobs, voice trembling as much as his body. “Greg, he’s gone. He’s gone.” John passed out.

Three hours 

“John,” for the first time he could remember Mycroft sounded tentative. “John, I’m very sorry. I know how much my brother meant to you, and how much you meant to him.” Mycroft shuffled on the spot, somehow sensing that it wouldn’t be wise of him to sit in Sherlock’s chair.

John still hadn’t raised his head from his hands, and it didn’t seem like he would summon the energy to do so soon. Stray tears still ran down his face, blurring his vision. Mycroft stayed silent in the way only a Holmes can; observing everything in a short pause. He had seen the way John had walked into 221b, limping with both hands shaking. He had watched as all of the soldier’s walls had fallen down as he fell unconscious in the detective inspector’s arms. He now watched as glistening tears rained down from between John’s hands. The thing that disturbed the cold man most was the dead eyes that looked up at him.

“Mycroft, he meant the world to me.” John choked. “Why would he do this? Why would he leave me like this?” Something like grief pierced Mycroft’s cold heart. He looked down miserably upon the mess of a proud man, and hoped that Sherlock had known just what it would do to John when he made the decision to jump.

 

Three Days

It was raining, but John didn’t take that as a bad omen. Sherlock always loved the rain, so was it so awful that it was raining at his funeral? Sherlock’s funeral. It sounded so strange, even in his head it was a massive contradiction. Sherlock was the most alive man John had ever known, a nervous ball of energy. He seemed never to have the need to eat or sleep; he was just constantly doing something. Constantly living. The funeral passed in a blur of people saying nice, kind things. John wondered if Sherlock would still be here if everyone had said these nice things to him when he was alive. He felt so sick he had to leave after that.

It had been three days since John saw Sherlock jump. Three days since John had eaten, or slept. It was like the death of the man had turned John into him. He stood by Sherlock’s grave after the funeral and begged him to come back, half wishing that he was under the soil with him. John knew though, he had seen too many deaths in Afghanistan not to know, that the dead never rose. No matter how much you prayed and hoped. He turned around and walked away from the only man he could call his friend, noticing only then that his limp was back worse than ever. He walked slowly, unable to force his body to move any quicker. Tiredness started to creep into his veins, the kind that was unrelated to sleep. He felt like he was falling, and there was nobody there to catch him anymore.


	2. Weeks, Days, Months

**Chapter 2- Weeks, Days, Months**

Three Weeks

In one of his fits of anger, as he throws and smashes and screams, he finds Sherlock’s stash of cocaine and morphine. For a moment his medical mind stops him in his tracks, warnings roaring through his disorientated mind. He dismisses them easily. If the drugs could make Sherlock feel better, knowing now how bad he must have felt, they must be able to help John. He grabs one of the hypodermic needles from the elegant mahogany box, and tips what he determines to be the right amount of powdered cocaine into a small cup. He then stands, and with shaking hands fills the cup with tap water. He swirls it around, watching as it slowly dissolve, and wonders not for the first time if this world was the real Hell.

John fills the hypo and sits down on the floor in the kitchen. He secures a rubber band around his right arm, and with no hesitation he stabs the needle into the vein and depresses the plunger. He sits there and waits for the reaction. He doesn’t have to wait long. The cocaine forces the very memories he had been trying to shy away from to the forefront of his consciousness. He starts to shake. John hears terrible screaming sobs start, as he watches his friend fall, as he looks into the blank dead eyes. He has a feeling it is him screaming. He passes out eventually, from the drug, or lack of oxygen, or plain emotional exhaustion, he just doesn’t know. The next day John knows that the morphine would make him feel better than the cocaine, but he simply can’t find the energy to get up and swallow the pills.

He begins to sob alone in the apartment with no one there to comfort him. John realizes then nobody would be there when he wakes up screaming from nightmares of Afghanistan or the pool, or when he had been called with the news that Harry had been admitted to have her stomach pumped again. He was alone, fighting the pain of life alone.

 

Thirty Days

No one but Mycroft came anymore. John was vaguely curious as to why Mycroft would be interested in him, but he didn’t have the energy to ask. He didn’t have the energy for anything now days. John knew that there was something wrong with him, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He had finished crying, but sometimes he wished he hadn’t. At least when he cried he was doing something. He didn’t do anything now. He didn’t move, or eat, talk or open his eyes. He just lay where he had dropped that day, unable to keep up the façade of surviving any longer.

That day wasn’t long ago, at least John didn’t think it was long ago, time ploughed on and he didn’t have the energy to track it and more. Lestrade had been there, and the police. They pulled him off the roof at St Bart’s, trying to save him. They didn’t understand. Life wasn’t worth living without Sherlock. He couldn’t be saved.

“John.” Mycroft was back again. It was very strange to hear him caring, to hear the concern in his usually cool aloof voice. “John, I’m just going to dribble some water into your mouth.” A cool stream of liquid poured in through his parted lips. With a little coaxing he managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. Each time Mycroft had seen him he had threatened John with the hospital, but he had not yet gone through with those plans. John figured that Mycroft knew that he would not leave 221b. That he couldn’t leave.

 

 

Three Months 

 “Mycroft.” John said hoarsely, not accustom to speaking. “Mycroft, how long was I like that?” Mycroft just stood, shocked into immobility. The last time he had seen John he was exactly where he was expected. Curled up on the floor of the living room, covered in a mountain of blankets. Suddenly the man was sitting up, communicating.

“Ah…” was pretty much all Mycroft could manage. He looked, really looked, at John for the first time since that fateful day three months ago. John had changed so much he would be unrecognizable to anyone who hadn’t seen him for a few months. His once bright eyes were dull, lifeless. His sweet, innocent face was now sunken, skin pulling taunt over bone. “Mycroft, how long was I like that?” The dead black eyes implored him to answer.

“Just over two months.”

“Mmm…” Was all John could manage in reply. He knew he should feel something, anything, but he seemed dead. It was as if Sherlock had taken everything the day. Even John’s emotions. His soul.

“John,” Mycroft sounded tentative, pulling John from his thoughts “Have you come back from wherever you were?”

“No” John said, completely serious. His empty eyes bored into Mycroft’s, telling Mycroft all he needed to know. John wouldn’t be coming back. He was lost as soon as he watched Sherlock fall.

Mycroft nodded sadly. “Can you stand?”

“I think so, can you help?” John seemed to be acting on autopilot from what Mycroft could tell.

He strode over and wrapped an arm under John’s shoulder, lifting most of the man’s feeble weight. As the blankets fell away from his body, Mycroft felt a wave of panic crash through his mind. “John, how much did you weigh the last time you were on the scales?” Mycroft asked desperately.

John had to think for a while, “About 12 and a half stone… Why?”

Mycroft pulled away from John, but had to lunge towards him quickly when he began swaying dangerously. “John, I’m going to have to carry you to the bathroom to put you on the scales.”

“What… Why?” It should have sounded curious or annoyed, but it just sounded dead. Monotonic.

Mycroft didn’t reply, he just pulled John into his arms, and carried the tiny man to the bathroom. He placed him down slowly, making sure he didn’t fall. John looked straight ahead, not caring about whatever number it was. He became a bit more curious when he heard Mycroft’s sharp intake of breath. He looked down, dimly aware that the needle was pointing just bellow the 8 stone mark.

“John.” Mycroft breathed. It hadn’t hit him until then how much this was really affecting John. How much it had destroyed him.

“John, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.” And with that he left after helping John to the sofa. 

Mycroft just couldn't handle this anymore, as strong and icy cold he is, he needed to get Sherlock back to John now, before any more damage is done to this fragile man.


	3. Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((To be honest I dont care by now how out of character it is, im having fun so yeah, sorry everyone))

**Chapter 3- Months**

Three Months

John sat still on the couch, trapped in his thoughts. A quilt was wrapped around his frail body, trying to keep warm. His eyes stared off into space, seeing a very different picture than the peaceful inside of 221b. _Sherlock’s staring eyes, his blood covering John’s hands. The phone call, the fall._ John shook his head, trying to dislodge the images that seemed to be burnt to the backs of his eyelids. Tears began to fall again, the first time in months. He didn’t notice the faint, tentative knock on the door, or the silent entrance of the tall, cloaked figure.

 

“John.” A dreadfully familiar voice whispered, sounding appalled.

John’s neck snapped up, eyes wide. There standing before him was Sherlock. Not the broken Sherlock from his dreams, but Sherlock when he was whole. There he stood, unchanged by the last three months, wearing a tight white shirt and black pants. Sherlock  looked as if the last three months hadn’t affected him at all. As if they hadn’t happened. Although, when John looked closer he could see something different about Sherlock. He looked sad, scared, and confused, with a good dose of alarm mixed in as well. All of the emotions Sherlock seemed to never feel were written across his face.

 

John sprung to his feet; blanket still wrapped around him, and stared at Sherlock for some long seconds in utter shock. Then his world went black, emotion overwhelming him. An unknown amount of time passed before he became aware of his surroundings. He felt the quilt tight around his body. He could hear quiet, rhythmic breathing that was not his own, he could feel through his blanket a warm body pressed over his. He slowly opened his eyes to see Sherlock leaning over him, hand on his neck feeling for his pulse. The look of alarm in Sherlock’s eyes had intensified greatly, and he seemed genuinely frightened. 

 

“John? Can you hear me?” Sherlock asked frantically. John’s blank, dead eyes were unnerving him. “John?”

 

John punched him.

 

“You left me!” He screamed. Losing his grip on himself, tears began to run down his face as he yelled. “I watched you fall Sherlock, I thought you were dead for three months! Did you think of how it would affect me?” All the energy left John, and his shoulders sagged. “Did you even think of me at all?” He whispered.

 

Sherlock looked across at the broken man facing him, pain constricting his chest with the realization he did this. John was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, frame shaking with sobs. _How did I not foresee this?_ Sherlock slowly moved closer to John, ignoring the pain radiating from his jaw.

 

“John, it’s going to be okay. I’m here, and I’m not leaving you.” John seemed to sob harder at his words. “Oh, John” he said softly, hugging the shaking man. John seemed to calm down enough to rest his head against Sherlock. Sherlock froze as soon as his arms were around him, something was wrong.

 

Sherlock stood and pulled John slowly to his feet, grasping his shoulders when he swayed on the spot. He pulled the blanket away from John, ignoring the man’s feeble resistance. Sherlock gasped and paled as the blanket fell away from John. John was wearing only a pair of shorts which were much too big for him. His bare chest, arms and legs were on show, and Sherlock was nauseated at what he saw. John was thin to the extreme, more so than even Sherlock had ever been at his worst. Each of his ribs protruded, looking as if it would break the skin. His arms were thin as sticks, muscles wasted away. His legs were shaking, thighs as thick as Sherlock’s arms. How was this man still alive?

 

“John.” So much pain laced his voice that John was forced to look up from the floor. “Oh God, John. I am sorry. Oh god.” Tears started to track down Sherlock’s face, the physical evidence of his ‘suicide’ hitting him full force. _If this is how broken John’s body is, what must his mind be like?_

 

“What did you think would happen, Sherlock? Did you think I would just watch something as terrible as that and move on? Did you honestly think you could come back and find me fine?” John’s whispered, voice trembling.

 

“I-I don’t know. I thought it was the right thing to do, I thought you would be okay.” He hid his face with his elegant hands, tears consuming him. “I thought you would survive.” He choked out, voice barely audible. John’s legs gave out, and he sunk to the floor.

 

“Sherlock” John whispered, tears tracking down his emaciated face. “Why?”

 

“I had to; you would have been killed if I didn’t. I couldn’t watch you die John, I couldn’t. I had to do something, and it seemed like the best option at the time.”

 

Sherlock sat down next to John, unnaturally pale face whiter than ever. They were both leaning against the couch, tears running slowly down their faces. Sherlock turned to John, “Are you okay?” He asked quietly.

 

John did the first thing that came to his fractured mind; he lent over and fell into his friends embrace. There they stayed for a long time, holding each other together, tethering the other to sanity. Sherlock’s mind was a blur; fear, anger, hurt, loss, worry, such intense worry. So many emotions that he was sure he had never felt before. John was hurting, and it was his fault.

 

“Sherlock, don’t you ever leave me again, okay. I need you to promise me you won’t leave.” John muttered, voice muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“I promise John, I won’t leave you, ever.” Sherlock knew full well the consequences that this promise would entail, but he also knew that if he left again John wouldn’t survive. “Now, you have to promise not to leave me, or at least not for a very long time.”

 

John frowned, “How did you find out about that?” He asked shakily. He was beginning to get his emotions under control, and his brain was starting to function. He had gotten over the shock, and was now beginning to be happy Sherlock was back, not just hurt.

 

“Find out about what?” Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. Another emotion he rarely felt.

 

“St. Bart’s, my suicide. How did you know about it?” John asked, an amazing amount of indifference in his voice. The truth was that Sherlock was back, and he felt safe. Talking about anything from the last three months was painful, but the pain was dulled by Sherlock beside him.

 

Suddenly though Sherlock was gone.

 

He had leapt to his feet, his expression could only be described as furious. He held out a warning finger to John, telling him to be quiet. He paced back and forth across the room, breathing hard. John ignored his warning.

 

“Sherlock, what-?” John asked, only vaguely confused. It seemed that Sherlock didn’t know about St. Bart’s then. He was cut off mid sentence by a glare.

 

“Saint Bart’s, the hospital where I ‘fell’,” Sherlock held his hands up, accentuating the word fell. “And now say ‘your suicide’, like you tried to jump.” He stopped pacing, looking directly at John. John nodded, not knowing what else to do. Sherlock scared him when he was out of control like this. “YOU TRIED TO JUMP OFF A BUILDING!” Sherlock screamed. “After all I did to protect you, after everything, you tried to jump!” He was losing all control. “Can you imagine how I would feel to come back to find you, and hear that you jumped? Do you know how much that would hurt?” Sherlock was scaring John, but something in his words forced him to speak.

 

“Yes Sherlock, I can imagine how it would feel. Because I watched you jump, I saw you commit suicide. I listened to your ‘note’ and watched as you stepped off a bloody building. I lent over your dead body, thinking that you had been pushed too far and hadn’t told me. That you thought life with me wasn’t worth living. So don’t you dare ask if I thought about how much it would hurt you to jump, because you jumped! And you didn’t think about how it would kill me seeing that!” John began to sob quietly again.

 

Sherlock was still fuming, _how could John think of jumping? John couldn’t leave him! ...But I left him_. Sherlock finally understood. He had a glimpse of the pain John had been through the last few months. He knew then how scared John would be that he would leave again.

 

Sherlock once again sat down next to John, who was still trembling with sobs. He looked directly at John, hands shaking with emotion. “I won’t leave you.” He spoke with such conviction it surprised even himself a little.

 

John smiled weakly, “I won’t leave you either.” 

 

John passed out.


	4. Found

**Chapter 4- Found**

 

Sherlock knew he was close to being put through all John had been through these last few months. As John’s eyes rolled back in his head Sherlock made a swift move to catch him before he hit his head on something. John was completely unconscious, and from his pulse rate he wouldn’t be waking up for a very long time.  _If at all_ , Sherlock thought with a shudder.

 

He stood up and surveyed the tiny figure insensible on the floor. John was curled in the foetal position making him look painfully small. Sherlock swooped down to pick him up, wincing at the feel of all the sharp bones digging in to him. He placed John carefully on the lounge, and did the only thing his frightened mind could think of.

 

He dug out his phone and rung Mycroft.

 

His brother answered on the second ring. “Sherlock?”

 

“Yeah hi, look the plan to be gentle and look after John’s needs sort of fell apart. He is unconscious at the moment, I think he was pushed a bit too far with me screaming at him. He looked very frightened.”

 

Although Sherlock did sound worried and regretful Mycroft couldn’t help sighing. “God Sherlock, we talked about this. Be careful with him, he is very fragile. You don’t just start screaming at him for… Why did you yell about?”

 

“It seems that you neglected to mention that John tried to jump off Saint Bart’s.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and Mycroft shuddered. He had seen the sheer amount of pain that follows that tone, and he was not looking forward to it being directed at him.

 

“Look Sherlock we will discuss this later, you said John was unconscious.”

 

“Yes, what do I do? If I take him to hospital I can’t see him, they don’t let dead men walk into places like that. And if he goes to hospital and wakes up without me… well, we both know that won’t end well. But I can’t keep him here without proper medical attention and equipment which he needs because he looks like he weighs nothing.”

 

“Eight.” Mycroft whispered, heart breaking. He thought through all of options quickly, and decided that he would make some calls and get John into a hospital. He opened a new email, and quickly wrote ‘221b Bakers Street to Saint Anne’s Hospital- emergency’. He sent it to his driver, trusting the man to get there quicker than an ambulance.

 

“Mycroft, what do you mean by eight?” For the first time during the phone call Sherlock sounded close to tears. He knew exactly what Mycroft meant by eight, he just hoped he had somehow misinterpreted it.

 

“You know what I mean Sherlock, I weighed John before I left to call you.” He paused to allow Sherlock time to soak in the information. Usually he wouldn’t dream of needing to do this, but Sherlock’s brain didn’t work well when he was feeling a strong emotion, especially strong negative emotion. “I have sent a car to your address; it will take you to Saint Anne’s. Pack a bag for John now, the car will be there in about four minutes. Oh and brother, please remember to be gentle with John.”

 

Sherlock hung up, brain and body numb. He looked down at John on the lounge and a few more tears escaped from his grey eyes. He knelt down next to his very broken friend and placed a shaking hand on his neck to feel for a pulse. Fear struck him when he realized how weak John’s pulse, his face was a frightening shade of white and his lips were turning blue. Sherlock could tell that John hadn’t moved before today for months. His body wasn’t reacting well to the shock of standing, talking, fainting, yelling and crying.

 

“John…” Sherlock whispered before springing up and hurrying to John’s room. It hadn’t changed at all, which was strange, Sherlock thought, as everything else seems to have changed. He went straight to John’s wardrobe and grabbed a pair of track pants and a big fluffy John jumper. He found a small bag at the bottom of the wardrobe and began shoving random items into it, including clothing, John’s laptop, books, his phone, and anything else that fitted.

 

He hurried back to the lounge room, the pallor of John’s emaciated face piercing right through the careful walls he had build around his heart. He dropped the bag and grasped John’s quilt, pulling it closer around his tiny body. John shivered silently, his whole frame wracked by the tremors. Sherlock made a quick decision and picked John up. He then lay down on the lounge, placing John against his front. He pulled the quilt up over both of them trying to warm John with his body heat. Silent tears still tracked down Sherlock’s face; he just didn’t seem to be able to control them anymore.

 

A knock on the door didn’t even make Sherlock jump as he held John. The visitor waited about ten seconds before opening the unlocked door. Two men dressed identically in tailored suits entered, looking astutely around the apartment for any sign of danger. They’re eyes fell upon the two men cuddled up on the sofa, and they would have looked away in embracement if not for the look of torturous pain on the dark haired mans face, and the look of extreme sickness of the blond man.

 

Sherlock silently extracted himself from the cocoon and went to pick up John’s bag. He handed it to one of the suited men and in a tiny voice he simply told them “This man is dying. Get us to Saint Anne’s quickly, please.” God he sounded so desperate.

 

He lent down and carefully scooped up John, blanket and all, and followed the men quickly down the stairs.


End file.
